To Punish the Monster
by petrelli heiress
Summary: Sylar was no longer human, he was a monster. He deserved to be punished. Didn't he? Rated M for a reason, people. Don't say I didn't warn you. Peter/Sylar. Mentions of Elle/Claire.


**To Punish the Monster**

**Author's Note: Okay, people, this was inspired by an Elle/Claire fic, of all things, and my current playlist. SLASH. Pretty dark at times (includes TORTURE, people, so be warned)...and, okay, I'm just gonna say - Rated M for a reason people. You have been warned. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Heroes**

**_________________________________________________________________**

Peter closed the bedroom door and stared at the scuffed carpet, stunned.

Claire...and Elle. He shook his head slowly. He tried not to think about them…together…but his mind would _drift _back to the rather tender scene he'd just so rudely interrupted.

He strode down the hall, the stairs, out the door. He didn't know where he was going but he _certainly _knew where he'd been. He decided not to think about it...and found his thoughts drifting back that way only seconds later.

Claire...and Elle. It just did not compute. His niece and that sociopath. Together. He shook his head again, shoved his hands deep inside his pockets and strode purposely off...to some unknown destination, he wasn't too clear on that part.

So it was with some surprise that he found himself at Company headquarters (that is, at the Primatech Papers branch in Odessa, Texas). He had the vague memory of taking the bus. It was with even more surprise that he found himself outside Sylar's cell, watching him as he lay on one of the uncomfortable beds they had there, still knocked out by whatever Elle had shot him with. Part of the remaining virus that negated abilities, for a little while at least? He didn't know exactly.

He watched possibly the greatest monster of their time snuffle rather adorably in his drugged sleep. He viewed, with mounting confusion, his fingers grasp the key, his hands unlock the door, and his body step across the threshold as though they belonged to someone else. _What the hell are you doing?! _a little voice screamed inside his head but he ignored it.

It took awhile to chain Sylar to the ceiling. He'd always wondered what those handcuffs above him had been used for, when he'd been in one of these same cells. Now he knew. He didn't know _how _he knew, but he did. Obviously he wasn't going to use them the _exact _same way...but it would probably be similar to its original purpose.

For the first time, Peter was glad Sylar now had Claire's ability. It would make this so much more interesting...

He splashed a bit of water on the murderer and that woke him pretty quickly. The water was freezing here. Peter remembered.

As Sylar spluttered and gazed at Peter, astounded at his very presence, he turned away, leaving his back unguarded. He knew – somehow felt – Sylar try and use his telekinesis on him, almost _heard _his surprise when it didn't work. He had to leave the room – knowing Sylar would try to escape and also knowing that he couldn't – to retrieve some much needed tools for the task he was about to undertake – to torture Sylar, something he knew many people would be jealous of.

Sylar was no longer human, he was a monster. He deserved to feel as much pain and suffering as he'd inflicted. And Peter would be the one to give him exactly what he deserved.

Something inside him had snapped the moment he'd seen Elle and Claire together. His niece had received everything he'd never had. Not only did she have her father's love (both of them, in fact), she also had an ability which made her special, an ability she wanted desperately to lose. And he, Peter, now had neither. Now, on top of everything, she had Elle. Not that he wanted Elle in any way. No, it was the fact that he knew she and Claire would work. He knew he'd never have that. Simone, Caitlin...he ruined every relationship he'd ever been in.

And deep down, past this sick jealousy, the _old _Peter, the empathic one, felt horrible for what he'd said to Elle, when he'd told her that Claire had only been nice to her because she pitied her. Because – now that he'd seen...what he'd seen – _that _certainly hadn't been the reason. Simply put, he was going to take all of his anger, jealousy and frustration out on Sylar, who deserved it anyway. He _did_.

Now he returned and laid his tools out gently on the bed, Sylar watching him suspiciously, dangling from the ceiling like a piece of dead meat. He walked past him, locked the door, and then turned slowly until he was gazing directly at the monster.

"You're a monster," Peter said quietly, his voice echoing around the silent room.

Sylar gave no indication as to whether he denied the allegation or not, only continued to glare spitefully at the broken empath before him, emotions boiling just below the surface.

Peter picked up a large, curved knife from its position on the bed, weighed it in his hands. "You deserve this," he said just as quietly as before. He glanced up, stared straight into Sylar's dark brown eyes. "Tell me you deserve this."

Sylar simply snarled at him. It was the only response he felt was appropriate given the extremely bizarre circumstances.

Peter blinked at him. "Tell me you want me to punish you," he said, mildly, moving the knife around his fingers.

His confusion almost overcoming his surprise, Sylar merely chose to continue glaring at him, causing Peter to sigh mournfully.

"Then I'll just have to make you say it," he murmured, his quiet tone filling with bitterness, and he thrust the knife into Sylar's abdomen, twisting it in deeper.

Sylar screamed, a dark burst of pain momentarily clouding his vision. He felt his skin trying to knit itself back together but the knife was still in the way. Peter let go of the hilt, watching him squirm like a worm on a hook. His mouth twisted as he thought of what to do next. Sharp again...or blunt? He decided to go with sharp, just once more; it had such a lovely effect.

He retrieved another knife, this one as straight as the other one was curved. It glinted dangerously in the fluorescent light. Tilting his head slightly, he watched Sylar try and push the knife out with his telekinesis, but to no avail. The drug was still working. Excellent.

He thrust the knife in his hand through the monster's thigh, watched with interest as the wound tried to heal around the knife. Strange that the drug had no effect on the regenerative ability. He wondered if Bennet had had anything to do with that. He nodded, satisfied, as Sylar gasped in pain.

He frowned and pulled the other knife out of Sylar's abdomen, observing the gaping wound knitting itself back together as fast as it possibly could. He waited until the last possible moment...and then thrust the knife back in, eliciting another delightful scream from the monster.

Sylar lunged, screaming obscenities at his torturer, but Peter merely moved out of range. He shook his head mockingly. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" he said, placing a hand over his heart in mock horror then paused, grinning. "Oh, but you killed your mother, didn't you? Murdered her with her own scissors...are you telling me you don't deserve to be punished for that?"

The monster lunged at him again, battling the chains which kept him inches away from eviscerating Peter, who laughed and moved forward just enough so that he was inches from Sylar's face. "You deserve this," he whispered, his breath chilling Sylar's face. "Admit it."

Sylar glared at him, remembered that his legs weren't chained, tried to use them. Peter just gazed at him, disgusted, before pulling the straight knife out with a jerk. He screamed, unprepared for the onslaught of such pain. And then more, as Peter thrust the knife back in.

After that it became mere sensations. Sylar didn't know there could be such variety in something seemingly as simple as pain. Different colours, sounds. Pushing him deeper into the darkness...and then bringing back up into the light, gasping for breath. Sharp...he grew to remember that with fondness. Blunt...he hated, it left him covered in bruises and scrapes, some taking a lot longer to heal than a simple knife wound. His ribs broke more than once. Hot...first, second, third, fourth degree burns, searing pain, somehow far more painful than when Elle had electrocuted him because it lasted _much _longer. Cold...he shivered, felt the burning cold as his hands were shoved in buckets of ice cold water, felt the ice cubes bumping his crabbed fingers. And the worst, for no reason he could see, Peter taking chunk of flesh off with his fingernails, leaving long red scratches marking him as the monster he was.

And then...and then there were the _other _sensations. Cool hands on burning flesh. Gentle fingers unbuttoning his shirt. Warm breath against his damp cheeks. _That _was the real torture. Pain...pain he could understand. It had _rules_. These kind gestures...they left him befuddled, gasping, wanting _more_, knowing he didn't deserve them. _This _was what brought tears to his eyes, not the pain although that was great.

_I'm a monster! _he shouted silently. He needed to be punished. He needed to be punished. He needed to be punished.

Peter merely continued with his administrations, either of pain or kindness. He was never too sure which. Sylar realised then that Peter couldn't hear him; he was powerless. He felt, then, the pain almost banishing the drug from his system, knew he could escape if he wanted to now.

But he didn't.

"Peter..." he gasped out, trying not to move, knowing that if he did the knives would be twisted in deeper still. "Peter..."

Peter gazed at him with interest. The monster was saying his name. "Yes?" he said, his tone just as mild as it had been.

"I'm...Peter, I'm...a monster," he finally wheezed. He saw Peter nod, agreeing, of course he was. "I need...to be...I need to be punished..." He coughed up blood, felt its wetness on his lips. "_Please_..."

Peter blinked, actually looked unsure for a moment. He moved closer. "Say it again," he said, his tone rough. "Say it." He placed his hand on the hilt of one of the knives.

Sylar whimpered. He didn't want this to go on. But he needed it to. _Why? _his entire body shouted, sending crescendos of pain through his head. _Why? _He couldn't give it an answer. Instead, he whispered, "I need to be punished."

Peter's grasp on the knife tightened. "Louder," he whispered, his breath cool against Sylar's burnt flesh. He twisted the knife in deeper, shouting, "Louder!"

He screamed the words, screamed his pain to the world, and felt the window shatter.

Peter watched him, knew the drug was losing its effects, didn't care. He caressed Sylar's cheek, felt it heal beneath his fingers, heard the alarms, didn't care. He felt Sylar lean into the caress, heard him whimper, knew the guards were most likely coming, didn't care.

He reached up, unlocked the cuffs. Sylar fell and Peter caught him, struggled to hold him upright. Their faces inches apart, Sylar felt him blink against his cheek, his eyelashes grazing the now fully healed flesh, felt his warm breath near his ear. "What now?" his torturer whispered. He sounded so alone.

Sylar heard the guards running, shouting to each other. He gazed at the shattered window in front of him. "We leave," he said decisively.

When the guards _finally _reached their destination (really, security in that place was so lax) they found only a blood splattered cell, a shattered window and no prisoner. Their superiors were going to be so _pissed_.

Running on pure adrenaline, it wasn't until they were outside and at least three blocks away that Sylar realised the two knives were still rammed into his flesh and stumbled, gasping as the movement tugged at them.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Peter whispered beside him as he pulled Sylar's arm around his shoulders and pushed onwards. Sylar simply held on tightly and tried not to whimper.

They eventually made it to a motel and paid for a room, making their way there as the manager gazed at them with concern, wondering if he should call 911. He decided not to. Better not to get involved was his motto.

Sylar leaned against Peter and watched as he fumbled with the key, before unlocking the door and stepping inside, pulling Sylar gently along with him. They never made it to the bed, Sylar having collapsed half way across the room.

He hissed in pain as he fell, twisting his ankle. He had to laugh – after all that had happened, a twisted ankle could still bring more pain. Peter watched him, brow furrowed, probably wondering why he was laughing.

Peter knelt down next to him, worry etched into every feature. His hands ghosted over the knife hilts, hesitating, not wanting to cause more pain than he already had.

"Stop pussyfooting around, Peter," Sylar hissed between gritted teeth. "Just pull the bloody things out."

Peter obeyed, and winced as the man he had been torturing cried out in pain before subsiding into weary shudders as the wounds closed. The knives fell to the floor. Now his fingers ghosted over Sylar's body, searching for injuries he knew realistically would have healed a long time ago.

Sylar grasped his fingers, ceasing his search. "Why did you stop?" he asked quietly. "I deserve to be punished. I need to be. So...why?"

Peter shrugged. He really didn't know why. He remembered his sick enjoyment, his _satisfaction_, whenever Sylar screamed, or cried out in pain. He shuddered, wondered where such a monster could have come from. He didn't remember why he'd started; just that it seemed to be a good reason at the time. And he didn't know why he'd stopped. He searched for an answer, any answer, but none would come. He let out a shaky breath he hadn't known he was holding, ran the fingers Sylar wasn't grasping through his hair.

"You were right, Peter. I am a monster," Sylar said when he didn't reply. His tone was sad, as though he'd always known it, just never had the courage to say it out loud. As though he knew it wouldn't change anything.

Peter shook his head vehemently, although he didn't know why. "No," he said, stubbornly, again with no reason. "_I'm _the monster. I shouldn't...shouldn't have..." He took his hands from Sylar's grasp, looked at them; there was blood on them. Sylar's blood. He shuddered, felt a sob rise in his throat, heard it burst from his lips.

And then he was enveloped in the arms of the man whose blood he had on his hands, and he buried his head in Sylar's chest without a second thought, sobbing what felt like his heart out. He felt hands stroke his hair, lips press themselves to his forehead, and breathed in the heady scent of a man he'd once believed to be a monster.

Sylar eventually pushed him away gently, and he couldn't help but let a whimper of disappointment escape. A smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Sylar held Peter's head in his rather large hands and said, "Perhaps we can be monsters together." He added softly, "Punish each other."

Peter shook his head vehemently, again, now knowing the reason. "No," he said simply. Sylar gazed at him, shook his head at Peter's naivety. He found that amusing in itself. Peter had tortured him...and yet the older man still found him to be adorably naive.

"No," Peter repeated. He kissed him, his lips brushing softly against a very willing mouth, his tongue sliding between sweet tasting lips, exploring, searching, finding. He pushed him down so that they were lying on the carpet, Sylar beneath him. A moan escaped him before he could reel it back in and he felt Sylar smile beneath his lips, felt his hands thrust inside Peter's jean pockets and grip tightly. Another moan, louder this time, escaped him.

Sylar chuckled, broke the kiss, looked up at him. Peter felt inexplicably angry. Here he was, practically panting with desire and the man had the gall to lie there, _grinning _at him. He glared down at him, his bruised mouth forming an immediate pout. This just made Sylar laugh even more, the sound reverberating between their bodies, making Peter's legs turn to jelly.

"My, you're very eager for someone who was just torturing me awhile ago," Sylar said, caressing his cheek with a gentle finger, the soft look in his dark eyes belying his mocking tone. Peter merely growled and tried to kiss him again.

"Oh, Peter..." he whispered, catching his chin with two deft fingers and turning it up so that he was looking Peter in the eye. "You really don't what you're getting yourself into."

"Yes, I do," Peter whispered, his breath tickling Sylar's fingers. He brought his right hand up and, gently, softly, slowly entwined his fingers with those of Sylar's. "I know _exactly _what I'm getting myself into," he added, his tone a decibel lower.

Sylar shook his head, knowing he had lost but unwilling to admit it. "No, you don't," he replied his tone level, his shaky fingers revealing his true state. "I should just...tell you that I...well, more often than not, I end up manipulating, killing and/or maiming people I get close to. Just...warning you, in case...you know." He shrugged, a rather uncomfortable move to make while lying on the floor.

Peter gazed down at him. "Well, _you _should be prepared for death and/or getting stuck in an alternate future if you want to get close to me." He felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and let it come through. "I'm not exactly a healthy person to be around, either."

Sylar was silent for a moment and then said, "An alternate future? Really?"

He felt Peter laugh, the sound reverberating down his body. It was his turn to close his eyes and try extremely hard not to moan. "We're cursed, then," he said, his rather breathy voice revealing his true condition.

Peter nodded vigorously . "Yup. So...maybe if we...you know, um...our curses would cancel each other out?" He looked so hopeful as he proffered an extremely pathetic excuse that Sylar didn't have the heart – or the will, if he was brutally honest – to say no.

Instead of replying he brought Peter's face closer and brushed their lips together in a tender, soft kiss.

After that there were merely sensations as he drowned in a sea of desire and something _more _than simple desire, a sea which never let its victims go. Their gasps, moans, groans whirled into a mêlée of indistinguishable sounds; their breaths intermingling, sharing air, that most precious commodity; the feel of the carpet on his back, and then on his chest as he turned over; the touch of Peter's fingers along his arms, his nails searching for purchase on his stomach, holding him as he thrust, deeper...deeper...

More sensations rushed by, as they climbed together. The feel of Peter trailing kisses down his spine, of fingers gripping his hair, of fingers entwined with his own gripping tightly as they came, their pulses throbbing, their hearts beating as one, crying out.

They lay there, shuddering, their bodies spent, their minds awhirl. Sylar made to turn over, Peter unthinkingly moving away so he could, then lying back down, his head pillowed on Sylar's chest. He heard the erratic heartbeat, one that he knew mirrored his own.

He felt something fall on him awhile later and, after a bit of needless panicking, realised it was a blanket Sylar had telekinetically brought from the bed and draped over them. Obviously they were not going to be moving to the bed any time soon.

He sighed happily, strengthened his grip on their entwined fingers and smiled as Sylar returned the grip.

Sylar lay awake as Peter fell asleep in his arms. He gazed at the head of dark hair pillowed on his chest and wondered how exactly this had happened. Well, okay, he knew how it happened – after all he'd been there – but...possibly the better question would be _why _this had happened.

He deserved to be punished. _This _– what had just happened – was not punishment, that much he knew. This was something new, something he knew he liked very much, but also something he knew he didn't deserve. So...why?

He sighed, felt Peter murmur gently, lips gently grazing his chest, and smiled. Maybe all of this could wait until morning. Yes, that sounded like a good...his eyelids fluttered shut and he slept.

***

He opened his eyes and had to close them immediately, the sun shone so brightly. He growled softly and made to turn over, away from the light. Peter fell off him with a yelp.

Peter glared at him, rubbing his side, his bottom lip lowering itself into a pout instinctively. Sylar wondered absently if Peter realised whether he did that or not. He smiled over at him and the pout instantly disappeared, replaced with most dazzling smile he had ever seen. And it was directed, most unusually, at him.

"Good morning," Peter said, grinning that lopsided grin of his.

"Good morning," Sylar said, trying to be serious, the twinkling in his dark eyes giving him away almost immediately. They were being so formal! "And how did you sleep, my darling boy?" he asked, his mouth twitching. He pursed his lips as Peter snorted.

"About as well as you did, I'm should think," Peter replied, not even trying to quell his laughter. He gazed at Sylar and noticed he seemed to be waiting for something.

"What?" Sylar asked, Peter's gaze prompting some sort of response from him. He squirmed nervously, averted his eyes.

"What are you waiting for?" Peter asked, genuinely curious. At the puzzled glance he received as his only answer, he elaborated. "I mean, you look like you're waiting for something, all tensed and...stuff." He cursed his inability to describe things in detail, or at all.

"I'm waiting for someone to burst in on us," he answered and felt a blush creep up his neck and across his cheeks as Peter smiled. "It's not totally unheard of," he muttered.

Peter moved so that their bodies were pressed together, making Sylar gasp just a little. He smiled at the reaction. "A valid reason, sir," he said, his tone serious. "But I highly doubt anyone knows where we are..." He frowned. "Except, possibly, the manager." He glanced across at Sylar and grinned. "You know, I think we might have to move to the bedroom. Our chances of being interrupted will plummet then, I'm sure."

Sylar smirked, standing up and pulling Peter to his feet. "And this has absolutely nothing with getting me into bed with you, I'm sure."

Peter looked shocked. "How dare you insinuate...I only care about myself, you know that. I can't be caught with a known murderer. Do you realise what that would do to my reputation?" He sniffed and turned away, heading for the bedroom when Sylar caught him around the waist and brought him close enough to brush their lips together.

They did eventually make it to the bedroom, and the bed therein. Once they did, however, it didn't take them long to drown again in that sea of desire, ecstasy etching itself around every sensation, every touch, every emotion until there was nothing but climbing...climbing...and finally a burst of joy so intense it left them breathless, shuddering as the remnants left them feeling nothing but exhausted.

"Why did you torture me?" Sylar asked out of the blue as they panted next to each other. He watched as Peter's bottom lip instantly protruded. His thumb moved, grazed over it, the roughness making Peter's eyelids flutter close and a moan issue unbidden from his mouth.

He repeated the question, saw Peter's eyes snap open. "Peter?"

Peter sighed, and fidgeted nervously. "I...it's stupid," he said, knowing it was. Oh, not the lie he'd told himself – that Sylar was a monster, and deserved it – but the truth. The real reason. He glanced up quickly and then back down, watched his fingers dancing nervously around themselves. "I...was jealous."

"Of me?" Sylar sounded incredulous.

Peter shook his head. "Of Claire." God, he felt so stupid. He heard the confusion in Sylar's voice as he asked, "Why?"

"She...she has everything!" burst out of him, and the jealousy that had raged within him peeped its head. "A power that makes her special, someone who loves her...fathers that love her. And I have...nothing. None of that." He didn't even try to stop himself from pouting, his eyes still trained on his fingers.

A finger on his chin lifted it up so that he was now staring directly at Sylar. "You really are a brat, aren't you, Peter?" he said mildly, cutting off his protest with a kiss, leaving him breathless and in no way needing to protest anything.

Peter smiled lopsidedly at him, getting a smile in return. Then a frown and, with a growl, Sylar reared up. "I knew it!" he shouted, flailing his limbs every which way, trying to understanding why he wasn't as angry, as devastated as he should be. "That _bitch_!"

Elle...and Claire. He _knew _it, as soon as he'd walked in on them, all cuddly in their motel room. It explained the pathetic excuse of a Company agent he'd been given to fend off. But then...he'd known before then. Not _specifically_, but he'd known. He'd given all of himself – well, what he wanted to give, anyway – to her but she...had held back. Because, he realised now, she didn't love him. Not anymore, at least. She loved Claire.

He frowned, went still. He felt Peter watching him, worry in his brown eyes. Why did the fact that Elle loved Claire, and not him, have so little effect on him? The anger he'd felt had passed almost instantly, there and gone in a second. Maybe it had been the torture...he glanced over at Peter. Well, it couldn't be him. That would just be...too soon. Too fast.

Just right.

Peter was surprised when Sylar pulled him into his lap and insisting on kissing him very hard on the mouth. He soon recovered, however, and proceeded to give as good as he got.

They stayed in that motel room for an entire week. Peter had enough money for that, at least, and Sylar knew where to get more if need be. They didn't stay longer because, by the end of the week, frequent visits by a nervous manager who kept asking awkward questions forced them to leave, stopping off on the way to the airport to retrieve some money since Peter had run out.

They stopped off in L.A. for a week and then went on to London, of all places. They had decided between them maybe a change of scenery would keep the Company off their trail.

It certainly did, since both Noah and Nathan were far too busy processing their daughter's newly revealed relationship with Elle Bishop to chase after them. Being in an entirely different country helped matters immensely.

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**And...well, hmm. Yes. **

**Review please. **


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